After they had left the Lodge House, he and Fraser had walked the short distance to the vicarage, following the road rather than using the short cut through Dingle Dell, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon. Fraser had rather taken to Saxby-on-Avon and was a little puzzled that the detective seemed so immune to its charms. Indeed, it struck him that Pünd hadn’t been quite himself since they had left London, lapsing into long silences, lost in his thoughts. The two of them were now sitting in the living room where Henrietta had brought them tea and home-made biscuits. It was a bright, cheerful room with dried flowers in the fireplace and French windows that looked out onto a well-kept garden with woodland beyond. There was an upright piano, several shelves of books, door curtains that would be drawn in the winter. The furniture was comfortable. None of it matched.
Robin and Henrietta Osborne were sitting next to each other on a sofa and could not have looked more awkward or, frankly, more guilty. Pünd had barely started his interrogation but they were already defensive, clearly dreading what might come next. Fraser understood what they were going through. He had seen it before. You could be completely blameless and respectable but the moment you talked to the detective you became a suspect and nothing you said could be taken at face value. It was all part of the game and it seemed to him that the Osbornes weren’t playing it too well.
‘On the night that Sir Magnus Pye was murdered, Mrs Osborne, you left your home. This would have been about eight fifteen.’ Pünd waited for her to deny this and when she didn’t, added: ‘Why?’
‘May I ask who told you that?’ Henrietta countered.
Pünd shrugged. ‘Believe me, it is of no importance, Mrs Osborne. It is my task to establish where everyone was at the time of the death, to piece together the jigsaw you might say. I ask questions and I receive answers. That is all.’
‘It’s just that I don’t like the idea of being spied on. That’s the trouble with living in a village. Everyone is always looking at you.’ The vicar patted her gently on the hand and she continued. ‘Yes. I was out looking for my husband at about that time. The thing is …’ She hesitated. ‘We were both rather upset about some news we’d just heard and he’d gone off on his own. When it was getting dark and he hadn’t come home, I began to wonder where he was.’
‘And where in fact were you, Mr Osborne?’
‘I went to the church. Whenever I need to sort myself out, that’s where I go. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Did you walk or did you go on your bicycle?’
‘The way you ask that question, Mr Pünd, I suspect you already know the answer. I took the bike.’
‘What time did you return home?’
‘I suppose it would have been about half past nine.’
Pünd frowned. According to Brent, he had heard the vicar cycle up past the Ferryman about half an hour after he had arrived. That would have been about nine o’clock or nine fifteen. There was a discrepancy, at least fifteen minutes missing. ‘You are sure of that time?’ he asked.
‘I’m absolutely sure,’ Henrietta cut in. ‘I’ve already told you: I was concerned. I certainly had one eye on the clock and it was exactly half past nine when my husband arrived. I had kept his dinner for him and I sat with him while he ate it.’
Pünd did not pursue the matter. There were three possibilities. The first and most obvious was that the Osbornes were lying. Certainly the woman seemed nervous, as if she were trying to protect her husband. The second was that Brent had been mistaken – although he had seemed surprisingly reliable. And the third …? ‘I would imagine that it was the announcement of the new housing development that had upset you,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’ Osborne pointed at the window, at the view beyond. ‘That’s where it’s going to be. Right there at the end of our garden. Well, of course, this house isn’t ours. It belongs to the church and my wife and I won’t be here for ever. But it seems such a destructive thing to do. So unnecessary.’
‘It may never happen,’ Fraser said. ‘What with Sir Magnus being dead and all that …’
‘Well, I’m not going to celebrate any person’s death. That would be quite wrong. But I will admit to you that when I heard the news I did entertain precisely that thought. It was wrong of me. I shouldn’t allow my personal feelings to poison my judgement.
‘You should take a look at Dingle Dell,’ Henrietta cut in. ‘If you haven’t walked there, you won’t understand why it means so much to us. Would you like me to show you?’
‘I would like that very much,’ Pünd replied.
They had finished the tea. Fraser quietly helped himself to another biscuit and they all went out through the French windows. The vicarage garden extended for about twenty yards, sloping downhill with flower beds on each side of a lawn that became wilder and more unkempt the further they went from the house. It had been deliberately landscaped that way. There was no fence or barrier between the Osbornes’ property and the wood beyond making it impossible to say where one ended and the other began.
Quite suddenly they were in Dingle Dell. The trees – oak, ash and Wych Elm – closed in on them without warning, surrounding them and cutting off the world outside. It was a lovely place. The late afternoon sun, slanting through the leaves and branches, had become a soft green and there were butterflies dancing in the beams … ‘Purple Hairstreak,’ Henrietta muttered. The ground was soft underfoot: grass and patches of moss with clumps of flowers. There was something curious about the wood. It wasn’t a wood at all. It was a dell, much smaller, and yet now they were in it there seemed to be no edges, no obvious way out. Everything was very hushed. Although a few birds were flitting around the trees, they did so without making any sound. Only the drone of a bumblebee disturbed the silence and it was gone as quickly as it had come.
‘Some of these trees have been here for two or three hundred years,’ Osborne said. He looked around him. ‘You know that Sir Magnus found his treasure trove here? Roman coins and jewellery, probably buried to keep them safe. Every time we walk here, it’s different. Wonderful toadstools later in the year. All sorts of different insects, if you’re into that sort of thing …’
They came to a clump of wild garlic, the white flowers bursting out like stars and then beyond it another plant, this one a tangle of spikey leaves that sprawled across the path.
‘Atropa Belladonna,’ Pünd said. ‘Deadly nightshade. I understand, Mrs Osborne, that you unfortunately stepped on a specimen and poisoned yourself.’
‘Yes. It was very stupid of me. And unlucky too – it somehow cut my foot.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I can’t imagine what possessed me to come out without my shoes. I suppose I like the feeling of the moss on the soles of my feet. Anyway, I certainly learned my lesson. I’ll steer clear of it from now on.’
‘Do you want to go on?’ Osborne asked. ‘Pye Hall is just on the other side.’
‘Yes. It would be interesting to see it again,’ Pünd replied.